Jonathan Robison/trails
Poetry Intro I, Jon, would like to indulge myself by appending a couple of the poems I have written over the years. This is a benefit – at least to me - of the e-mail, which is not constrained by weights and postal rates. Obviously, you can simply delete them. Any responses or reactions will be cherished. Come, Elijah, Come Jonathan Robison, in honor of the current Passover season read at a Pesach seder in 2003, revised 3/14/11 Come, Elijah, come.The door is open.Your cup is filled with wine from each person’s glass.We’re serving dessert at the sederbut there’s still plenty of food. You can stay with us for awhile so that you don’t get picked up with the homeless, with your untrimmed white beard.Your home - Tishuba – that’s in the Judean hills, It’s not in what we now call the ‘West Bank’, so you don’t have to register with Homeland Security.Sooner or later someone will ask for your papers. No, Elijah, we’re not ready. We still spend treasure on weapons while children go hungry. Our weapons are larger than in your time, and more expensive. They can kill people hundreds of miles away. Our generals still expect us to bow down. Our princes still take money. Today they’re given “campaign contributions.”Prophets are still unpopular.We’re not ready for the coming of the Messiah.Maybe in a few centuries - maybe.We’re not ready. But more than ever we need you. CALENDAR Jonathan Robison :This is a set of twelve short poems, of haiku, written in an 11- syllable form (3-5-3). You may know that the traditional Japanese haiku are 17 syllables (5-7-5), but that includes punctuation. This an attempt to translate the Japanese haiku form. Snowflakes chalkthe night sky. The winderases. The snow blowsbutterfly kisses.The moon hides. Undeterredby pale buds, winterMarches on. By the streamlie soiled white ruinsof winter. An old fencewades knee deep in melt. Spring again. It’s not snowon the walk. It’s fromapple trees. A deep bluesurrounds the rain clouds.Don't fall in! Uniformedin blue, heat beats downlike a club. Summer, saysthe sky. The breeze saysSeptember. Gold and redJewels adorn a skyDressed in blue. Leafless, cold,dark and wet. Nothingleft to lose. Black branchesIn the driven snowGrope and mesh. Breakfast Served 24 Hours : Jonathan Robison 2000 revised “Breakfast Served 24 Hours” So says the sign in the window. 12:30 am: Just got off the job and changed, second shift at the plant. It's for younger guys, but a man's gotta work. On days off I get to see the kids when they're not asleep.'' Two eggs over easy. And decaf, please. '' Don't want to stay awake when I get home and hit the sack. Half past one:Just a quick cuppa coffee and a doughnut. Supposed to be walking the beat. But it's cold. Take a break now. At two the bars close and the street won't be so quiet. Maybe a desk job wouldn't be so bad after all. 2:30: Want to hit the loading dock as soon as it opens. Just a couple more hours on the road, they unload me, then real sleep in the motel.Bacon and eggs with home fries, juice and coffee.. The waitress will keep the cup full. Quarter to seven: It’s still dark. But I might as well get started on the paperwork. Look busy, so no one can tell me all about their date last night, or all about their kids. This sure beats fixing my own breakfast at the apartment.Waffles. She got the waffle iron. 10 o’clock: It's late. I didn't get much done this morning. No real reason to spend money on breakfast. But it's nice to sit and just talk with someone, face to face, not on the phone or on the net. Me and Cathy - just girl talk. I've been working at home since the baby got out of diapers. Cathy's been working at home since her company downsized. I can't sell her my computer graphics, and there's nothing I can buy from her. Guess that's what they call "networking."'' Orange juice and pancakes for me. ' And separate checks, please.'' Sometimes you need a fresh start. Noon:''Coffee?' Oh yeah. You bet.'' And two eggs. Scrambled. What was that place we went to after Chief's closed? and what was her last name? Ohh, my head. Almost six: Gotta do a sound check..'' A cup of coffee and a piece of toast for me.'' Something in my stomach, in case some customer wants to buy the guitarist a drink. '' Sunny side up for my buddy. '' He’s got a day job. But whenever I’ve got a gig, he'll come and listen, 'til closing. Then we go home. Nine o’clock: Left the house after he went to the bar, again. A cheerful neon welcome, checkered tablecloths, and no "mixed drinks."An omelet. And another decaf, please. Fortification, I’ve got a lot to think through. Now I’m watching the patterns that the milk makes in the coffee, swirling around, not yet dissolved. We don't ask questions. Of course, if you want to talk, hon, we'll listen. Making Friends with MS : Jonathan Robison 12/13/02 revised 2/15/11 A personal poem - unusual for me I’ve had MS about 25 years At first it was ‘remitting-relapsing.’ That was a nuisance.Then it progressed: ‘secondary progressive,’ they call it. Buddhist teacher Judy Lief wrote a book, “Making Friends with Death.”I’m making friends with MS. Might as well. It’s with me enough.Til death do us part, I expect. I appreciate what my nerves and muscles can no longer do.I appreciate what I still can do. I’m still happily active. And I think that my activism makes a small contribution to the happiness of others.Increased happiness, for myself and others, is still a goal in my life. I once loved dancing the hora. I didn’t really know how, but that didn’t slow me down. I think about the square dancing, and later contras. There were family square dances in Grandma Paula’s side yard I still remember some of the singing calls.But listening to music – from Bach to the Beatles – is an unalloyed pleasure. I know songs of struggle and protest in twelve different languages. I don’t know the languages, but I enjoy singing the songs.I love it when I get a chance to sing at demonstrations or on picket lines. Singing on the line is a source of pleasure as well as power. Until MS limited my mobility, my favorite kind of political action was not my electoral politics, with street lists and strategies. It was the peace walk.one foot in front of the other, then repeat. I don’t really miss driving. I didn’t drive for pleasure.Now I’ve got a power wheelchair and it goes on the bus. Mobility! Freedom! I have a rolling walker that folds up when my wife or a friend gives me a ride. I vigil for peace. I’ve done that since six weeks before we invaded Iraq.Now almost every Saturday for an hour I’m part of a small group with signs at a busy street corner. Passing cars often give a honk to express support.I’m still putting'' one foot in front of the other.'' Even when I’m sitting in my wheelchair. Sometimes passersby express appreciation when they see me at a vigil or demonstration. I explain that my wheelchair makes it easier.I even went on a peace march in my power chair from home through downtown to North Side. In a way, I should thank MS for facilitating my political action,. and also thank Medicare that paid for the power chair. Because of MS, I don’t read as fast. But I still enjoy a good book.MS can affect a person’s mental abilities. I’m ok on that, I think. My memory is a little worse. I still enjoy the sudoko in the newspaper, the ones it classifies as ‘hard.’I can no longer smell anything, which diminishes the pleasure of eating. But I still enjoy a good meal. And I still bake potato kugel when one of the groups I belong to has a potluck dinner. Everyone enjoys that. About 2003 I found myself “at liberty.” They didn’t turn me down for jobs because I was 60, and had MS. That would have been illegal.When my unemployment comp was running out. some friends advised me to apply for disability. The federal government terms MS a “listed impairment.” That makes approval easy.I certainly have limitations. But I don’t think of myself as ‘disabled.’Happily, I’m in no way out of work, just out of a job.I’m still busy. I work to support and strengthen public transportation. I’m on the board of my neighborhood council. I still do some politics. I do some legal work, mostly free advice for friends. One foot in front of the other. Everything will come, including the next bus. I’m not running anymore. I won’t run again for Pittsburgh City Council. I can’t even run for a bus.But I‘m president of the Allegheny County Transit Council, the citizen advisory body for PAT, which runs the buses and trolleys. With forty members and eight committees, I have plenty of work.I can’t canvass door-to-door for the candidates I support. But each election my wife and I send out a newsletter. I’m still an activist. I don’t spend hours looking on the web, hoping someone has found a cure, a “magic bullet.” I use my computer for work: advocacy for transportation and the community, politics, law. Buddhism teaches: live in each moment Cousin Peg Espinola’s folksong puts it well: “Savor the moment, ‘cause moments don’t last.”Don’t worry about the future. Don’t think about the future, except when you’re doing something about it.Don’t regret the past, Don’t think about the past, except when it’s a happy memory or when you’re learning from it. MS does me a favor by teaching about death.Each lost capability is a little death, like the death of anyone we loved, or even liked, like a broken friendship. A day lost to a serious illness is also little death.These little deaths help us prepare for the big one. So, what’s my relationship with MS?Not love, for sure.Sometimes it’s intimate in unpleasant ways.This is no marriage.I’m not forsaking all others. The help of my friends is essential to significant work. MS gives me kindly reminders of that.MS gives me opportunities to appreciate the kindness of strangers in small mundane things, like helping me put on my overcoat.MS gives me appreciation of little things I can do, like bending down to pick up a dropped pen.Respect? Oh yeah.Acceptance? Yes, but not resignation. I help raise money for MS research to make my companion go away, I go on the local MS Walk in my power chair. I still push the envelope of what I can do. I’ll just keep on keeping on, happy I can still make a difference.One foot in front of the other.